Tuesday, June 30, 2015

Let me take this other glove off As the vox humana swells, And the beauteous fields of Eden Bask beneath the Abbey bells. Here, where England's statesmen lie, Listen to a lady's cry. Gracious Lord, oh bomb the Germans, Spare their women for Thy Sake, And if that is not too easy We will pardon Thy Mistake. But, gracious Lord, whate'er shall be, Don't let anyone bomb me. Keep our Empire undismembered Guide our Forces by Thy Hand, Gallant blacks from far Jamaica, Honduras and Togoland; Protect them Lord in all their fights, And, even more, protect the whites. Think of what our Nation stands for, Books from Boots' and country lanes, Free speech, free passes, class distinction, Democracy and proper drains. Lord, put beneath Thy special care One-eighty-nine Cadogan Square. Although dear Lord I am a sinner, I have done no major crime; Now I'll come to Evening Service Whensoever I have the time. So, Lord, reserve for me a crown, And do not let my shares go down. I will labour for Thy Kingdom, Help our lads to win the war, Send white feathers to the cowards Join the Women's Army Corps, Then wash the steps around Thy Throne In the Eternal Safety Zone. Now I feel a little better, What a treat to hear Thy Word, Where the bones of leading statesmen Have so often been interr'd. And now, dear Lord, I cannot wait Because I have a luncheon date.

by John Betjeman

I love this poem. It's very funny and it cuts straight to the heart of the hypocrisy often paraded as devoutness.

Tuesday, June 23, 2015

No: my heart shall be a tower, and I myself set at its highest rim: where nothing else exists, once again pain and the unsayable, once again world. Still one thing alone in immensity, growing dark then light again, still one last face full of longing thrust out into the unappeasable, still one uttermost face made of stone heeding only its own inner gravity, while the distances that silently destroy it drive it on to an ever deeper bliss.

by Rainer Maria Rilke(translated from the German by Edward Snow)

Rilke certainly had the remarkable ability to be concise, compact, succinct and yet say so much with so few words. The essence of poetry, I suppose. The maximum impact with the minimum possible words.

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloud And goes down burning into the gulf below, No voice in nature is heard to cry aloud At what has happened. Birds, at least must know It is the change to darkness in the sky. Murmuring something quiet in her breast, One bird begins to close a faded eye; Or overtaken too far from his nest, Hurrying low above the grove, some waif Swoops just in time to his remembered tree. At most he thinks or twitters softly, 'Safe! Now let the night be dark for all of me. Let the night be too dark for me to see Into the future. Let what will be, be.'

I offer my own sort of companion piece to last week's poem by W.S. Merwin just because I'm an old greenie hippie at heart, folks. I wrote this poem way back in 1988 and, sadly, things have probably only got worst since then. Let's be more careful with our precious planet. What say you?